


Lost and Found

by RoseHeart



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon - TV, F/M, Fluffy?, Game of Thrones spoilers, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 06:09:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2537033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseHeart/pseuds/RoseHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A show canon story set some time after season four, centered around the hope of a reunion between Jaime and Brienne! Warning: there are spoilers for the rumors circulating around what could happen in season five (though they are probably old and invalid now).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tamjlee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamjlee/gifts).



> This is my first time writing show canon! The scene is formulated around some of the rumors and theories about what is going to happen in season five. Basically, I just wanted to write a reunion scene!
> 
> This is for tamjlee. To me, she is everything that makes fandom wonderful. I first knew her as someone else who commented and fangirled on all of the amazing stories for this ship. She was always so much more articulate than I and I was drawn to her speculation and analysis and wonderful support to authors. Then, when I started writing, she gave me support of my own and it was invaluable to me because having tamjlee comment on a story of mine meant the world (and still does). And through this, we began communicating and connecting and she has given me something even more precious: her friendship. Every day I am grateful for her and every day I will try to return that feeling. Thank you for being a fellow fan, a foundation, and part of my family.
> 
> You know who else is amazing? Coraleeveritas for speed betaing this and for making me smile, since she was proud of me for nearing fluff territory. And Sandwichesyumyum for not only her amazing talent, but her amazing heart.

_Lysa Arryn dead. Her son on his way to the arms of the Mother.  A bastard niece. All hidden in the Vale._  

The slippery tongue of Littlefinger had spoken easy, broken words, stealing the lament expected of a grieving husband and a desperate uncle.  But it all slithered down Jaime's spine like melting ice and raised his hackles.  He knew.  He knew that Sansa was there.  And if he knew _that_ , then he had no doubt that the beast of a woman he had parted with, and yet had clung to his thoughts and his dreams, must also be somewhere in the Vale. 

The notion of the young Stark maiden, who was all but the purest image of her mother, somehow trapped in the clammy hands of the wisp of a man who had pined and begged after Catelyn Stark, chilled Jaime further. But the possibility that Brienne could have also been caged in the Mockingbird's talons haunted him enough that he found himself mounting his horse and riding out of King's Landing. It was the same morning he had awoken in a cold sweat, gripping an edge of his silk sheets while his stump rubbed against the other, hoping to find rough, freckled flesh rather than the comforts of the Kingsguard. 

 _Let them play_ , he told himself as he left the city. 

Myrcella had been right when she had said he was different.  And he had been right as well, to let her follow her heart.  Cersei did not understand.  She had never truly given in to love.  He knew that now.  Perhaps she had never experienced the same fire that burned in him until he was nothing but ashes and bone.  Or perhaps she had never known it with him.  It mattered little. He was different. There was still a flame, but it was low and strong, a heat that blazed and persevered, giving life in the cold, providing light in the darkness, a constant beacon in his shadowy heart. 

So, let them play their game. He was unwanted in King's Landing, undesired and worthless.  And if his absence would not be noted, then perhaps he could make it to the Vale before Littlefinger even pried himself away from his overflowing, rowdy brothels. 

Leaving had been easy, but the journey was torture. He rode hard, always thinking that he could hear hoof beats chasing him in the distance, gaining and surpassing, reaching Brienne before he could warn her, see her, hear her. And all the while, he cursed his horse and himself, the times they both needed rest, the towns and inns he was forced to stop at in order to purchase food and supplies.  He traveled at dawn and dusk, moving at night so he would not feel the cold or the lack of a fire, and slept during the day where he could see if anyone snuck up on him and the sun’s heat would keep him warm. He had to hide from time to time, hoping that none would recognize the handless Kingslayer, despite the golden armor and white cloak that he had left behind without any regret or a single, longing glance back. 

When he eventually made it to the Mountains of the Moon, hungry and shivering and desperate, Jaime thanked the Seven that he survived down the high road without coming across any one of the patrolling clans. Though he had improved with Bronn, tired as he was, he could have barely raised his sword to protect himself against a rabbit.  And the relentless cold wind was a biting, cruel thing that slipped beneath his skin and squeezed out his lungs.  He marveled at the crisp green plains, dotted with vibrant wildflowers that flowed out of the pristine white snows which tumbled into the valleys along the path, thriving in the thin, frigid air. 

 _Had Brienne traveled this way? Had she plucked one of the violet plumes and wondered at its perfume, taking a moment to be the maid that she is?_  

It was disconcerting, storming through the lush, freezing, unblemished land, searching for an ugly lady and the unwanted squire he had sent her with.  He would wring Podrick’s neck if anything had happened to her.  But, no.  It was his fault for sending her off.  She was in danger in the capital, that much was certain after the way that Cersei had circled her at the wedding, prowling around a tasty, vulnerable morsel whose ripe flesh would burst in her teeth.  He had been impatient to send Brienne away after that, finding anything honorable to task her with.  But now, he was anxious to have her back, to hear her snap at him again, to catch her looking at him with eyes as clear and blue as the frozen lake he was riding beside, to know him as no other, not even his faithful, loving sister, ever had. 

And so, with the sun tipping precariously on the mountain peaks in the distance, he rode up to the Gates of the Moon, sweating just as much as he had in Dorne, though now his shallow breaths fogged his sight and his fingers, present and gone alike, were rigid and unyielding from the chill, while the rest of his body shook.  When the men guarding the entrance demanded to know his business, he found his jaw was too tight for him to speak.  And when they ordered him off of his mount, he realized his thighs were locked against the saddle.  They were rough, pulling him down and trying to get him to stand.  As he slumped to the frigid earth on their third attempt, they grabbed him under his arms and dragged him through the gates. 

He was finally inside the Vale. 

They carried him down a path, pebbles crunching and skipping as their weight pressed their boots into the dirt.  Jaime's own feet alternatively towed and tripped behind them as he tried to gain purchase from the slippery trail and pull from any strength reserves he had left.  He had pushed himself so far in a desperate hunger to save Brienne, and Sansa, that he was left with nothing, just as he finally reached the fingers of the Vale. 

After endless heartbeats filled with the grunting and cursing of his captors, they crashed through an old, heavy door that gave a metallic groan in protest.  Jaime was immediately deposited in a boneless heap against a corner of the room, thankfully close to a large fire blazing in a stone hearth. 

"Another mountain folk looking for shelter?" a harsh voice barked. 

"Aye," came the reply from one of the guards that had carried him.  "Looks like he did well for hi'self a'fore, though.  Stole a nice horse and a fine saddle.  Rags smell like piss and fever, still." 

"He must have upset his leader or the like.  They shaved his beard and cut his braids." 

One of the men kicked his hip and Jaime jerked, angrily trying to grab at the man's foot rather than shying away.  But they simply laughed at him and the sound brought back images of those that had circled him, sniggering at the rotting hand roped around his neck and the way he had cried from the shooting pain in his lost fingers. 

But he was not dying now.  And Brienne must be close.  Knowing her, she may have walked up to the fine men guarding the gate and politely asked them to lead her to Sansa Stark, expecting them to acquiesce at once out of a sense of duty and honor.  But perhaps, unlike him, she had been careful enough not to run her body ragged in her search. 

"Doubt this one was very good in a fight." There was a pause and another kick.  "'Specially without a hand." 

"Must have stolen a woman he wasn't supposed to, with his face." 

Jaime rolled to his knees while a chuckle rumbled in his chest and burst from his throat, turning into a hacking cough that dislodged balls of mucus from his lungs, which slid onto his tongue.  He spat.  "You fools don't know me." 

"Sure we know you.  You're someone, son of someone else, of the clan something.  Can't keep 'em straight no more." 

"Looks kinda sick, he does." 

“Hmm.  He does. Keep him here until the blood comes back to those pretty cheeks.  I’ll take watch. Tell Bronn to meet me when he arrives.” 

 _Bronn?_  

With a bang and a wash of darkness as the fire threatened to splutter out, Jaime was left with the two men that had brought him to the guardhouse.  Looking up through bleary, tired eyes, he made out a long table, framed with sturdy benches, taking up one side of the room and, along the other, was a line of cots. There was another, smaller door on the opposite wall and two paned windows, one across from the hearth and the other farthest from where those at the gate must have tried to catch a few hours of rest. 

But neither of the men with Jaime looked terribly drowsy as they settled themselves at the table and filled dirty tankards with thin, pale liquid from a jug.  Jaime’s sword belt was set between them, leaving him with nothing to defend or attack. He had not even his golden hand to use as a cudgel.  And it had been quite effective against Bronn.  The man would not speak ill of Brienne ever again, if he could even form her name around his missing tooth.  The echo of his whistling speech still filled Jaime with satisfaction. 

Though the gleam of the dagger at one of the men’s hip was enticing, Jaime doubted he could surprise them both and slip out of the cottage fast enough not to be caught.  And presently, in his state, he could only kill one of them.  So, with a sigh, he settled himself on the cold, dusty floor, drawing up his knees and wrapping his arms about his chest. Years on the battlefield, traveling with an army, had trained him to sleep lightly wherever and whenever he could, catching just enough rest to recover and then be up again. The two men drinking themselves to sleep at the other side of the room were large, but soft and they sat slumped on the benches, neither alert nor eager to move.  They had spent too long dreaming of simple comforts rather than learning to live in the harshness of being a soldier. 

So, Jaime dozed without worry, knowing he simply had to wait. And when he awoke, he felt his breaths deep and smooth, his muscles heeding his commands, and his eyes sharp, adjusting to the darkened room in moments.  The sky outside the windows was a deep blue, soon to turn to black, lit by stars too dull to shine against the blaze in the hearth next to him. But Jaime could clearly see the men now passed out at the table, one with his head resting on his arms and the other leaning against the wall, legs stretched out along the bench. 

Heedless, Jaime slunk along the floorboards, sliding his knees quietly through the grime, as he made his way to the one nearest the door. If the other woke before he could finish him, at least Jaime would have the advantage of escaping outside while the man would have to circle the table to follow. 

He managed to make it to the prone man’s side without stirring either form.  And with deft, firm fingers, he slid the dagger out of the sheath.  For a moment’s hesitation, Jaime prayed that the blade was sharp, considering the few times the guard would have use of it. And then he rose slightly, knees bent to flee, and ran the edge in one quick movement across beard, leathery skin, and the hard ball at his throat.  Red spilled over the metal and down Jaime’s hand, providing him with a rush of guilt-laden pride at the new control of his left hand. 

Before he could dash to the other side of the table, the jerking and gurgling of the guard roused the other one, who raised his head from his arms and looked first to his companion and then to Jaime, eyes wide with shock and fear.  But it clouded over as a storm of rage rumbled through and the man reached for his own dagger, sheathed at his side. 

Quickly, Jaime snatched his sword belt, tucking it under his right arm with his wrist, and decided to dash for the door, rather than grapple with the other guard.  He had feared the sound of the hinges shrieking and, sure enough, as he yanked it open, the cool night air rushed in with the sound of screaming metal, awakening the horses tied out back. 

It was darker than he had thought and it took precious heartbeats to adjust.  In that time, the remaining guard had made it outside as well, though he was searching blindly with his blade clutched in his fist.  Jaime pressed himself against the wall of the cottage, hoping that the deep shadows cast from the fire inside would hide him as he skirted towards the horses. But his toe edged a pair of shovels propped up on his right and they fell with a clatter. 

The guard whirled around and lunged at Jaime, pushing him back up against the hut.  Jaime had to drop his dagger in order to grab the wrist that held the knife coming at his heart. And as their arms fought, the man was able to rear back and land a hard punch to Jaime’s cheek. He grunted through the pain, shoving the guard away, lifting his knee to kick out and send the man to the dirt. 

Following him, Jaime straddled his chest and attempted to hold down the man’s arm with his stump while he wrested away the blade with his hand.  But he was distracted and did not expect for the legs beneath him to kick up, using the momentum to twist them around until Jaime was pinned to the dirt, trying to keep the dagger from piercing his eye. 

“You mountain scum!” spat the man on top of him. 

“You dumb simpleton,” Jaime laughed back, thinking that this was how he was going to die, stabbed by some bumbling soldier, freezing his arse off in the Vale, all for some ugly woman that saw only truths when she set her blue gaze on him.  He deserved this death.  This is what happened when he started to hope in things again, things like love and honor. “Don’t you know who I am? I’m fucking Jaime Lannister!” 

And with that, the guard stilled above him and slid to his side, hitting the ground hard, without any attempt at stopping his fall. Jaime heard the soft crunch as his head met the stones scattered about from the pebbled path. 

“Jaime?” came a voice above him, bodiless and floating in the dark. 

The guard must have killed him after all, if he was hearing the voice of the one he sought. 

“Jaime?” she demanded again. 

A shadow appeared, hunched over him, large and imposing. He could hardly discern her features but he saw the way her slicked, pale hair struck the light from the cabin and her pallid skin, marred with a soft spray of freckles and mud, appeared wan and sickly in the night.  But her eyes, deep pools of concern and surprise, were merely flashes, like heat lightning in the distance, as she blinked rapidly at him. 

“Brienne,” he sighed.  And it was right again.  He knew who he was once more.  She was there. The questions of how and why meant little when she was whole and frowning and real. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“What else?” he laughed.  “I’m saving you.” 

“Oh.” She stood back up.  “I don’t need any rescuing.” 

“Nonsense,” Jaime tried to smile, but it turned into a wince when he felt the pull of skin along his cheek sting.  He brought his stump to his face, drawing it away to find the blood in his beard smeared across the stretched flesh of his wrist. 

“What were you thinking?” Brienne snapped. She cast her glance to the man that she had knocked out and then back to Jaime.  “He could have killed you.” 

He certainly could have.  But Jaime bristled at her tone, the annoyance melding with the relief and longing at finding her, or at her finding him, alone together in the cold night. “I killed the other one, though.” 

“Trevor?” 

“ _Trevor_?” Jaime spluttered.  He just then noticed that she was not wearing the armor he had given her.  He had imagined coming across her wearing the blue tinted metal, dreamed of it lighting her eyes, coloring her fair skin and hair, washed in an azure flame, with his sword on her hip, the lion head glaring at any who dared approach her.  Save him. But she was in the same grey trousers, tucked into high boots, and cream wool tunic, which fell to her knees, as the man sprawled out beside him.  She had a heavy navy cape thrown over it all, clasped at her neck with a pendant of a falcon and a crescent moon.  “What in the hells is going on here?” 

With a sigh, Brienne held out her ungloved hand. She made sure she offered him her left and the gesture, conscious or no, warmed Jaime as he lay against the cold ground.  He reached out, letting the first touch of her in what felt like an age, sizzle from his fingers to his chest, and tightened his hold.  Though he expected to be hauled to his feet immediately, she tensed, eyes searching and jaw slack as her palm burst with sweat and her hand trembled slightly.

But, then she was pulling him up, hardly even bracing herself to take his weight, and he was falling into her.  He could have stopped his momentum, but he let it take him to her, just touching enough to soak up her warmth.  She had her large hands on his chest, keeping him at a distance, but not pushing him away, the stutter of her fingertips like the glancing caresses of sunlight dancing through swaying trees. 

“Where’s your sword, Brienne?” he murmured, thinking how low his voice sounded, just enough for only her to hear him, the words never leaving the circle of their arms. 

“Oathkeeper is safe, Ser,” she whispered back, caught up and held in the softness of his tone. 

He could not help but smile, despite the ache in his cheek, though it was small and sad.  Oathkeeper. _So many oaths_ , she had heard him tell Catelyn Stark half a lifetime ago. There was no way to keep them all. But perhaps there were some still worth fighting for. 

He reached up, proud that he had not lifted his stump, and swept his knuckles against her jaw, causing her to blink and scrunch the material at his chest as her hands tightened into fists.  He had to look up at her, as he always did, noticing her bottom lip tremble and curl in her chin, the puckered scar marring the skin above her mouth.  She was watching him too, blue eyes wet and shining as she cast them over his own scars, his unwavering regard, and settling on the beard that had not been there when they had parted.  Fleetingly, he wondered if she liked it better.  He had shaved it for Cersei, for his father, for the title of Lannister and Lord Commander. But when he was not so clean was when he felt whole.  It was how she had known him.  It was how he had come to know himself. 

“How are you here?” she asked, her breath falling against his nose. 

“A horse.” 

“No,” she huffed a frustrated laugh.  “You know what I mean.” 

Jaime traced up her cheek, watching the skin ripple like he was dragging his fingers through a calm lake.  “Littlefinger is in King’s Landing.  He spun an interesting tale.” 

“She’s here, Jaime,” Briennne replied excitedly. “I’m almost to her.” 

“I had no doubt you would find her.” 

“You didn’t?” 

He chuckled.  “Perhaps I was too focused on getting you away from my dear sister to think about if you would actually succeed or not.  But I never doubted _you_.” 

She leaned into his touch, inviting him to cup her warm face. Her pressure on him was now firm, palms splayed flatly to his beating heart.  “I never doubted you either.” 

“I should have gone with you, Brienne.” Her eyes made him say it, the blue that was nothing like sapphires or the murky sea swirling along the King’s Landing coastline.  It was a blue that must have been painting white shores on Tarth, a blue that was clear and open, in which he could look into and see a reflection of himself, as he had always wanted to be, as he could be, and yet find something better. It was her eyes that made him do stupid things and think romantic notions. 

“I can do it by myself,” the prideful, giant, ugly woman grunted, snapping away from his hand. 

“But did you _want_ me to go with you?” he purred as he leaned in and smiled, his head tilting and his fingertips skipping along the beating pulse at her neck. 

When her eyes widened and she looked away, Jaime knew he had her and the revelation thrilled him.  Without thinking of anyone or anything beyond this moment of relief, this stitching of the torn pieces of himself that had been rent apart as he had watched her leave, thinking it was forever and not far enough, he leaned in and kissed her. 

Cersei’s kisses were wild, rampant things, full of not enough time and too many battles for control.  But though Jaime had been his sister’s first kiss and had shared many with her afterwards, while she was still a maiden, Brienne’s lips felt everything that he had imagined a first kiss to be.  It could partly be the shock, since he was distinctly aware that after a sweeping inhale, she did not breathe again, her mouth tight, though it easily surrendered to the mold of his touch.  Jaime merely pressed his own chapped lips to hers and kept them there, but already she was sighing sweetly, a lady receiving a chaste kiss, just as she must have imagined. 

He tilted his head back, disappointed that Brienne did not follow.  Her neck was tense, shoulders rigid, and her chest was heaving rapidly as she finally sucked breaths in and out of the lips he had parted with his caress. 

“It’s not how you dreamed of a first kiss, I suppose,” he rasped, finding his throat thick with the taste of her. He tried to feel guilty about taking this moment from her, but he could not call up the correct sensation through the haze and buzz in his mind that tingled down his back and raised his flesh. 

“By a hut in the Vale with the Kingslayer? No.” A blush burst her faint freckles and drowned her skin and pale brows, making him want to kiss her again. 

He had to laugh softly at her slow smile that only tilted one side of her mouth.  “There are plenty of firsts for me as well, if you don’t want to feel so alone in this.” 

“What about-“ 

He hushed her with another kiss, not wanting either of them to think of their duties, those of the heart or those of the sword. And as he wrapped his right arm around her back and slid his fingers into her scalp, digging in to the slick, pale strands, Jaime felt her move, running her palms up his chest to clamp down on the muscles of his shoulders, leaving a trail of sparks that warmed his body.    

This time, she responded quickly, marveling Jaime with her eager attempts to match him, tilting her head so that she could claim his lips more firmly and he could press them together tightly, sharing heat, matching the rhythms of their heartbeats, and entwining themselves so fully that Jaime was close to pressing Brienne’s head to her own collar. She parried, though, pushing back, braving to touch his chin and arm while trying to leave scorching marks of her lips on his flesh.  

And he knew he was done.  He yielded to her, the strong maid he had followed, who had no experience except her intimate knowing of him, of them, of what it meant. And with all of that, she still let him in.  So, Jaime gave it all to her. 

When they parted again, Brienne was the one to pull back, though it seemed to only be to look at him with confusion and longing, a strange expression, he thought, since she was flushed, tousled, and properly kissed. 

“So, how did you plan on getting to Sansa Stark, then?” Jaime asked. 

Brienne blinked once, still caught in his arms, and shrugged as much as she could.  “Pod is in the kitchens.  And I have been given a position as a guard.” 

“They let a woman guard the Gates of the Moon?” 

“No.” Brienne looked away and he released her to writhe and squirm on her own, pleased to find that she could not look him in the eye and lie any better than he had with her.  “Well, you aren’t even _at_ the gates, yet.” 

“Brienne….” 

She sighed.  “They think I am a man.” 

“Bronn?” he chuckled, raising a brow. 

“It was the only name I could come up with, after I thought of yours and Pod’s,” she grumbled. 

“Well, how about _I_ take up guard duty.” 

“You’re staying?” she asked suspiciously. 

He raised his eyebrows.  “You think I rode all the way out here to kiss you and then leave? I’m staying.” 

“You’re staying,” she echoed.  And smiled. 

“Yes and that means you can find a more suitable position for a woman of your stature.” 

“And what,” she spat at him.  “Would that be?” 

Grinning, he took her hand and let her lead him back to the trail and towards the castle.  “Something with skirts, I would think.  You could hide a dagger in there, at least.  A serving wench would do nicely.” 

Brienne glared at him.  “I am no wench.” 

“Oh,” Jaime laughed, feeling lighter and freer than he had in a long time.   And whole. Undoubtedly whole. “You are now, wench.”

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing and know nothing.


End file.
